


Coda

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Mush, M/M, very litlte logic, very little angst, very little skill in writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:35:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to beautiful ghosts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendythewang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendythewang/gifts).



               Steve didn’t say anything the night the mattress dipped and a second super-heated body settled onto it. He held his breath until he realized it was obvious, caught himself and slammed his eyes shut fast as he could. Bucky hadn’t touched him, had clung to the opposite edge of the bed, and though Steve never quite fell asleep, he found the bed empty in the morning despite never having heard Bucky leave.

               Neither mentioned it that day, or the next, or the next. Instead, it became routine; Steve went to bed and within one or three hours, Bucky would slide noiselessly onto the very edge of the bed and then, at some unknown point in time, he left. Steve spent the first week straining his ears for the sound of Bucky’s approach or departure. It was a doomed quest, though: no matter how long Steve listened or how hard he tried to eliminate extraneous noise, he could never pinpoint when Bucky came or went. Eventually, he had no choice but to give it up and actually get some sleep. “Captain Asshat” experienced a marked decrease in usage among the Avengers when he finally did.

               Still, it niggles at the back of his mind when he’s lying there in dark silence, unable to even hear Bucky’s breathing. Bucky never was exactly an elephant, but there’s something different in these quiets: it’s not so much a stilling of oneself as a void, a hollow where breath and heartbeat should be. He tries not to dwell on it, but it’s hard to ignore when they’re lying, silent, in the night.

               Steve twists his hand tighter in the sheet corner he’s pulled to his chest, tries not to think of Schrodinger’s Soldier on the other side of the bed. If he doesn’t look, he doesn’t have to know.

               Suddenly, the mattress shifts and there’s a cold arm over Steve’s.

               “You’re thinkin’ too loud,” Bucky mumbles, breath hot on the back of Steve’s neck. “Go to sleep.”

               Steve’s frozen. Bucky’s arm is on him. Bucky is touching him. Bucky is - his fingers clench hard into the thin sheet. He doesn’t - Bucky barely speaks, much less seek out physical contact. The cat-like way he used to drape himself over Steve, crowd into his space, just about purr at Steve’s fingertips through his hair - all those things are long gone. The man who used to be the Winter Soldier can cut a phrase like a newly-forged sword, but he doesn’t loosen his armor for anyone.

               The arm around his shoulders shifts, lightening as if it’s about to be pulled away. Instinctively, Steve drops the sheet to grab Bucky’s wrist. His breath catches at the motion: he’s been avoiding sudden movements and intimidating posture since Bucky showed up at his apartment, to say nothing of physically restraining him. He drops the metal prosthetic as if burned.

               “Shit,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have - that was - I - I’m-”

               “Steve,” Bucky sighs behind him.

               The arm settles back down, fingers wrapping gently around Steve’s wrist, light enough to tickle when those microscopic hairs catch on the prosthetic’s metal plates. Steve can’t look down, can’t bring himself to realize that this is a fever dream, a hallucination brought on by nervous fatigue and sleep deprivation.

               His skin tingles where the metal slides across it; it’s not as cold as he expected, probably thanks to the ambient heat from Bucky’s own body. Still, it leaves invisible marks across Steve’s skin like hoarfrost.

               “Probably shoulda’ asked before I stole your bed,” Bucky admits, quiet and not quite the loose drawl he had before but still easy, relaxed.

               “No, it’s - it’s okay,” Steve stammers, still struggling to relax. “I just - you don’t usually-”

               He cuts himself off, forces himself to exhale and inhale to the count of four.

               “You just surprised me ‘s all,” he explains. “It’s - it’s okay.”

               Bucky’s quiet for a few moments, his hand still smoothing up and down Steve’s wrist with. Little more than a year ago, that hand was beating him to death; now, it traces over his bones with the type of reverent care reserved for newborns.

               “I remember - a - a lot, actually," Bucky says like a confession,  an admission to an old crime. "More than you think, probably."

               Steve can’t answer that, doesn't have anything to say other than _"I don't know.  I don't have any clue what you remember."_ A month or so after showing up, Bucky had spent a week or two checking his returning memories with Steve, but once he stopped,  he never had again. He’s been nearly mute for five months straight,  only breaking his silence when he absolutely must.

               "I don't want you stuck with me, Steve," Bucky sighs out, all in one breath. "I was damaged goods before. Now? I'm - I’m what happens when you take a flamethrower to a fucking oil rig."

               "Speaking from experience?" Steve tries weakly, cringing as soon as the words leave his mouth.

               To his surprise,  Bucky huffs a soft breath of laughter.

               "Ha ha. Good one, punk," he drawls, but the humor bleeds out of his voice faster than a neck wound. "Look, you’re the best guy I've ever known. You deserve to go out there and enjoy life, okay? You don't owe me anything. Hell, who knows if we'd've worked out anyway."

               Steve’s fist doesn’t clench,  but it’s a near thing. Anger courses up through his bones, burning new channels through them.

               "So, what are you doing then?" he demands. "What the hell are you actually trying to do, Buck?"

               Bucky’s hand pauses, like a glitch in its programming makes it stall.

               "I don't - I just -" he breaks off and breathes in sharp. "Look, I'm not any good for you. I'm fucked up and selfish and-"

               "And a goddamn idiot if you think that changes anything," Steve snaps,  pulling out of Bucky’s grasp to roll over and face him. "Jesus Christ,  Bucky. Yeah,  so you killed people. We're both soldiers,  we've both been there. So you have nightmares. I can't get in a pool any more without having a panic attack. We're both screwed up. You went through way the hell more than you should've even survived, and you're still fighting to be a good guy. You're still you. And yeah, maybe we don't work out. Okay. It's not like either one of us is running out of years, and if I'm gonna' waste some, I'd rather they be with you."

               He's propped up on his left arm now,  chest heaving a little with the speed of the words pushed from his lungs. Bucky’s eyeing him with a familiar light in his blue eyes, lips quirked in the streetlight's glow.

               "Well damn," he breathes out,  "sure as hell beat my speech. You come up with that on the spot?  'cause, between the two of us, I practiced."

               "You practiced telling me you were gonna' leave?" Steve demands, anger draining slowly from him.

               "Well that, too," Bucky acknowledges, reaching back to rub the back of his neck, "but you didn't let me finish."

               Steve blinks.

               "Oh. Wait, what?" he demands.

               "I mean, I was all prepped to say I was going, but I was trying to say that, if you're willing,  I'm willing to give us a shot," Bucky explains.

               Steve stares at him.

               "So I guess that's a yes," Bucky concludes.

               "Jesus Christ, Buck," Steve releases in an explosive huff, dropping to his back. "Why didn't you just say that?"

               Bucky’s shoulder brushes against him in a faint shrug.

               "Guess I've got a thing for doing it the hard way," he replies, dry,  and Steve doesn’t bother stifling a loud snort of laughter.

               "God, you _jerk_ ," he laughs helplessly,  carelessly.

               He can near about hear Bucky’s smile as Steve interlaces their fingers.

               "Fuck off, punk," he mutters, gruffness lost in blatant cheer.

               Steve’s cheeks hurt from grinning,  and he pulls Bucky close. Immediately,  Bucky curls around him, and maybe it's more protective than it used to be and maybe the metal arm's a cool reminder of how everything’s changed - but. But Bucky’s lips are soft and warm, and the sun's coming up in gilded splendor, and he thinks, _I can work with this._

               The easy way's never been all that fun anyway.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ach I'm sorry this is terrible. I accidentally deleted a bunch and then I just rewrote it out the way back from a track meet when I was too tired to walk. So. Yeaaaah. But it's happy?


End file.
